The two of them fall into easy conversation, swapping stories about their favorite colors, tools, and how frustrating it is when ink bleeds through the page. They even start sketching quick little doodles on the back of Bri’s napkin, side by side. Mya’s lines are sharp and clean; Brianna’s are full of energy and imagination. Together, they look like something I’d frame.
Watching them, I feel something loosen in my chest. Relief—maybe even hope.
Across the table, Maggie catches my eye. She winks and mouthsI like her.
I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my mouth, even as something drops in my stomach. My carefully-rehearsed plan is already unraveling at the edges. Mya looks like she belongs here, and that scares the hell out of me.
By the time we’ve cleared the table, Brianna’s practically attached to Mya’s side.
“You have to come back soon,” she insists, holding up her pinky. “Promise?”
Mya hooks her little finger with Brianna’s, smiling. “Promise.”
Satisfied, my daughter disappears upstairs, calling over her shoulder, “Goodnight, Dad! Night, Maggie! Night, Mya!”
Mya chuckles, watching her go. “She’s special.”
“She is. Her mom and I did one thing right together.”
Her smile falters just slightly, but she nods. “You’re doing better than you think.”
Maggie gathers her things and says her own goodbyes, slipping out with one last smile at me.
And then it’s just me, Mya, and the remnants of the wine.
I tilt the bottle toward her glass. “Another?”
Mya hesitates, then nods. “One more. But that’s it. I have to drive home.”
I pour, and the sound of wine spilling into the glass fills the quiet kitchen. We both take our stools again.
“Tell me something,” I say, leaning my forearms on the counter. “Something I don’t know about you.”
Her lips curve. “Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Hmm.” She takes a sip. “Well, my favorite band of all time is Queen.”
I arch a brow. “Classic. I approve.”
“I’ve been dying to get my hands on a signed copy ofA Night at the Operarecord on vinyl,” she adds. “But it’s rare. Like… ridiculously rare. I’ve looked everywhere, and no luck.”
“Why that one?”
Her smile softens. “My dad used to play it all the time when I was little. Saturday mornings, he’d put it on while making pancakes. The whole house smelled like syrup and butter, and Queen would be blasting in the background. I think that’s when I first started falling in love with music.” She lets out a quiet laugh, then shakes her head. “It’s funny, the things that stick with you.”
Her eyes dim a little. “It feels like one minute we were arguing over who got the last pancake, and the next, he was just… gone. I think that’s why I love that album so much. It’s the last sound that reminds me of him before everything changed.”
I don’t say anything, simply listen.
Mya traces her thumb along the base of her glass. “I used to think grief was something you got over. But I don’t think it works that way. It’s more like a scar under your skin. You stop noticing it every day, but it’s still there when you press hard enough.”
I nod. “You just learn how to live around it.”
Her gaze meets mine across the island. She’s not hiding behind sarcasm or control or all the walls she usually builds this time. Mya is justhere, open and human. And somehow, that makes me feel seen in a way I haven’t in years.
“Sorry,” she says after a beat, forcing a small smile. “That got dark fast.”